The Mazer (15 page)

He stood up and clapped his hands together. “The years have eaten into my flesh, Silva, but my voice and my mind remain. My mind tells me that there’s more to this matter of the treesmoke than meets my eye. Never seen anything divide the Session like that before. And there’s something in the wind, too, Silva, blowing that reek over the island, making people unsure, scared, and unpredictable. So! We must increase the guard in and around the city; that’s the first step. We’ll bring most of the guard back from Oakenwood and those at Ashenwood, too. Catching Rath is secondary at this time. We simply must control the situation here first, before squandering resources elsewhere.”

Silva wished her mind were as clear as Trevello’s. His plans made perfect sense, but were at odds, surely, with Isleaf’s words of warning. Isleaf had mentioned Oakenwood and Northernwood. Shouldn’t she be sending the guard out to those places to check what was going on? And he’d mentioned a traitor in Southernwood, too. It couldn’t be Trevello, could it? Oh dear, how could she trust anything anyone told her?

“Do you remember my pledge, Trevello? I said that I also wanted to find out what happened to Father. I do wonder whether his disappearance is connected to the problems our island faces.”

“Whyever do you think that?”

“Er, well, it’s something I read on a leaf.”

Trevello sat on the desk and folded his arms. “A leaf! Don’t get me wrong, Silva, the trees are wiser than we are, I know, and it was a leaf that announced your legatorship, but the leaves don’t have to haul petty criminals out of hiding holes or chase over toward Quagfen to stop a riot. Some of our trees like fact and figure, a straight yes or no. Others like to dream, to paint with pretty prose and poem, to dance with summer twig of leaf or winter branch of snow. They are who they are and who they must be. And so must we be, also, using our common sense, our powers of persuasion, and our understanding of the best way to get something done. And when the Session meet at sunset tomorrow, they’ll want a strong leader standing before them, not a tree!”

If he was upset with her, he didn’t show it. He smiled, then turned his gaze to the cellar door and laughed.

“Filibert! You can come out now.”

Filibert suddenly appeared, a grin on his face.

“Telling our Silva what to do, Trevello? Quite right, quite right! That’s our job, to advise, to persuade, as you so diligently point out, and then, oh, the luxury of it all, when we can leave the decision making in the hands of our capable Legator!”

Trevello laughed again and got off the desk. “I do not doubt that our Legator is extremely capable, Filibert. She is more like Zossimo than she knows. He was a man of the trees, your father,” and he nodded to Silva, his eyes lit with the memories of a man he had clearly admired. “We would talk through the night, congratulate ourselves on our wonderful ideas, shake hands on a new course of action, and then he would disappear off into the Hintermounts, where a driving rain would cast him into a copse where a tree, who knew much more about our plans than we did, would, with a word, persuade him to change his mind completely! But enough of an old man’s chatter. I go to eat with the crowds, and then I must return to the guardery where I’m sure there’s work aplenty.”

Trevello left. Silva stood up. Filibert was still grinning.

“Very good, Silva. You didn’t let Trevello boss you about, which means you’ve got more spleen than many a Session member. Would you like to take a look at my little cellar?”

He disappeared into his room. Well! Trevello had certainly not left her in any doubt that the Session would expect a strong, decisive leader. It was difficult to imagine that she would ever sit down for a cozy chat with Trevello like Father had. How could she face the Session tomorrow? It was one thing talking to Trevello in his office, but quite another standing in front of a crowd of scheming, excitable Session members who were probably just waiting for her to put a foot wrong. They wouldn’t want to hear her nattering about a leaf! They’d be nudging each other, smiling to themselves, slowly coming to the conclusion that they might put up with her for so long, or not even very long at all, before forcing a new election for one of their own. What if she showed them exactly what Isleaf had written? Yet it seemed his words were only for her, and he hadn’t even let her keep the leaf with—

“Are you going to come in?” came Filibert’s voice. “I have some magnificent jam pudding here, and it’s got to be gobbled up! You probably haven’t eaten, and neither have I, but it’s often a good idea to start with some pudding, I find, and I’ve put it by the fire to warm up a bit.”

Filibert’s cellar was a small, high room, and wonderfully warm. A single candle burned on a table that was littered with quills, boxes of mathematical instruments, colored bottles and a set of goblets. The light flickered upon long scrolls hanging from metal spikes. A ladder stood in the corner. The scrolls fluttered as she closed the door.

“Filibert, your walls are alive!”

The Treasurer chuckled. “Those are my calculations, Silva. I write everything down on one long scroll, and then I get the guards to come and hang it up. I can’t climb a ladder myself. This is a strange room. Look at it! I’m not sure why it was built like this. Perhaps Trevello’s office and mine were supposed to be storerooms for the kitchen. I don’t have much space to lay out my work, so I thought I’d use the walls, and the spikes were already hammered in. Every so often I have to clear some of the older scrolls to make room for the new. Can’t store them here, you see,” and he pointed to a line of barrels running from the edge of the hearth around to the door, “because Trevello has half-filled this room with water barrels. He’s afraid of fire, as we all are, but Trevello says, if the Albatorium is going to burn down, it’s not going to be because the fire took hold in his part of the building. Still, I’m glad to have the fireplace—here, come and sit by the hearth. Trevello hasn’t got one in his room, did you notice? So that’s why my door is always open. It lets the heat out and visitors in. Would you like some rose petal tea?”

He went to his table and poured some pink liquid into a goblet. Silva sat down and took a piece of the pudding, which was wrapped in wax paper.

“Winifred left food for me yesterday,” said Filibert. “There was far too much, as usual. This pudding’s the last of it. It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Delicious,” said Silva, her mouth full of sweet pastry.

Filibert took a sip of tea.

“Oh, that stuff is vile! Winifred made it, and I’m trying to get a taste for it, but it’s an evil brew if you ask me. You don’t want any? Then let’s pretend we drank the lot,” and he came back to the fire and threw the rest of the tea into the flames. The logs spat out a flowery, woody scent, and Filibert sneezed.

“I’ve got a much better recipe than that,” he said. “Apple, honey, spice, you can’t go wrong with those three.” He put the empty jug by the hearth, helped himself to some pudding, and walked over to examine one of his scrolls, munching happily.

“I like my cellar, Silva. When I was an apprentice, there was no heating in this room, and the Treasurer used to share the guard chief’s office behind the Albatorium in the main guardery building, a cheerless place, and a bit smelly to tell you the truth, being near the kitchen rubbish pit. The arrangement didn’t work too well as you can imagine, so when Zossimo came to power, he decided to move the two offices here, and they installed this small hearth. It’s situated almost above the main fireplace in Bassan’s laboratory downstairs.”

“I like it, too,” said Silva. “It’s much nicer than Trevello’s office, or upstairs where Marchus works, although he said he spends most of his time in the writing room.”

Filibert gazed up at his scroll thoughtfully.

“Ah, yes, Marchus. An interesting fellow, and very learned. He produces the finest manuscripts on the island, as you know. Which is why,” and he tapped the parchment in front of him, “I have persuaded the old chap to produce a special scroll for our Winifred, packed full of my tastiest recipes, including my apple tea.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Silva, smiling. It was hard not to laugh. She’d have to ask Marchus tomorrow how his work on all these recipes was coming along! But then the thought of the Session flitted into her mind again, and her stomach began to churn.

“Filibert, I don’t know how I’ll persuade the Session to go against Trevello’s recommendations. What would you do?”

Was Filibert even listening to her? He’d wandered over to his desk to fetch a quill, and now he was scribbling furiously on the bottom of his scroll, quill in one hand, pudding in the other.

“Hmm, that’s not quite right. How on earth did I arrive at that conclusion? I can’t believe I spent days thinking about this problem only to come up with an incorrect solution! And why is that? Because I didn’t understand the problem in the first place. Define your problem, Silva! Then devise your plan of attack. You may need to solve more than you think to find your answer, but in this matter, the conclusion may depend less on intellect than the voice of your heart,” and Filibert looked down at Winifred’s pudding in his hand and sighed.

***

Harold carried an empty platter out of the Public Hall. He threaded his way through the crowd in the entrance, skipped past groups of guards and Session members who were tucking in to their meal, and went into the kitchen.

“Harold, give that platter to Lisette and see who’s knocking on the yard door, will you? Did you spot Filibert in the Great Hall?” asked Winifred.

“No, I didn’t,” called Harold, stepping into the scullery, where Lisette was washing a stack of dirty dishes.

“No, don’t put that there, Harold, that’s all clean!” scolded Lisette. “Put it in that pail and get a cloth. You can start wiping these dry and then take them out to the Great Hall.”

“Sorry, Lisette,” said Harold, dropping the platter into the pail. “But you’ll have to get one of the maids to do it. I’m busy.”

“Harold! Don’t be cheeky. Hey, come back here!” cried Lisette.

“Harold! The door!” shouted Winifred.

“Yes, yes, one moment,” grumbled Harold, and he opened the door. Marchus stood there, holding a flat leather document case.

“Good day, young man,” said Marchus. “My, something smells good! Listen, I don’t want to sit in the halls today, far too noisy for me. Can you grab me something to take upstairs? I’d be ever so grateful.”

The old man’s eyes glistened. Everyone knew of Marchus, but few ever saw this wispy-haired scribe, his mind as sharp as the tip of an ash leaf; it was almost the only part of him that seemed fully alive. Harold had certainly never seen Marchus outside.

“Why not come into the kitchen, sir?” he asked. “I’ll prepare you a platter and you can take it through the Great Hall and upstairs.”

“Oh no, my boy,” replied Marchus, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. All I want is to be no bother to anyone and for nobody to be any bother to me. I’ll go down the icehouse path and then use the stairs from the underfloor. A little farther, but a lot quicker, don’t you think? So I’ll wait here. Thank you so much!”

Marchus didn’t seem to expect him to say anything, so he went back to the scullery and grabbed a clean, wet plate.

“Old Marchus is at the door,” he whispered to Lisette. “He wants some food. What shall I give him?”

“Marchus?” said Lisette, shaking the water off her hands. “Follow me. He’ll want something simple, and not too much of that, either.”

“You know Marchus, then?” asked Harold, following Lisette back through the kitchen.

“Oh, yes! He hides up in the archive most of the time. I take food up to him occasionally. I’m sure he’s not supposed to eat up there, but he has a tiny office where he’ll have a midday meal. He’s always busy: writing, instructing the scribes, organizing the library collections or preparing exhibitions of books, leaves, or manuscripts, that kind of thing. I don’t know what we’d do without him, really. Now, let’s see. A slice of cold trout should suit, a spoonful of turnip, some parsley root—keep the platter still, boy!—and shall I pour a bit of the fish stock over it all? No, better not.”

“No bread?” asked Harold.

“He doesn’t eat bread.” Lisette eyed the yard door. “Can’t you see, he hardly eats at all? I—”

“Stop gossiping you two,” said Winifred, bustling past them. “Lovely to see you, Marchus! Harold’s got you a nice plate of food. Be sure to eat it all up!”

Harold joined her at the door. Marchus held out his case, and Harold balanced the platter on top of it. His meal wasn’t very appetizing: white fish, white roots. No wonder the old man was so pale.

“Wonderful!” said Marchus. “Thank you, boy; thank you Winifred; and a thousand thanks to you, Lisette!” and off he went, walking softly down the path in his slippers.

“Can’t that man find himself a proper pair of shoes?” sniffed Winifred. “Brings me out in goose pimples just looking at him!”

“Don’t be nasty, Winifred!” said Lisette from behind them. “Here, Harold, go after Marchus and take this mug of milk upstairs with him. And check he sits down to eat, please!”

Harold took the mug and set off. Down the passageway where he’d talked to Rath, past the icehouse door—and what was that? Voices. Marchus and Bassan. Oh, he didn’t want to bump into Bassan again! What were they saying? He edged round Great Aspen’s trunk.